David Morrell - Desperate Measures

by Desperate Measures(lit)

  have to worry about as he took out his tool knife and used its lock

  picks. The scrape of metal made him wince. It seemed terribly

  amplified, certain to draw someone's attention. Nonetheless, he kept

  working, freeing one pin, then another, continuing to apply pressure to

  the cylinder, suddenly feeling it turn. As the lock's bolt slipped

  free, Pittman turned the knob, worrying that someone might be waiting

  for him on the other side. He drew his pistol, lunged through the

  opening, aimed toward the darkness with his right hand, and quickly used

  his bandaged hand to shut the door. He listened. The echoes of his

  rapid entrance diminished. Enveloped by silence, he held his breath,

  straining to see in the darkness, on guard for the slightest sound. A

  minute passed, and in contrast with the chill he had felt outside, his

  body now streamed sweat.

  He locked the door behind him, felt his way upstairs to the main floor,

  listened, crept up to the second floor, listened again, and approached

  the-door to the archives. The opaque window revealed a hint of

  moonlight glowing into the room. It, too, was locked, but this time he

  wasn't surprised.

  Quickly he freed the bolt on this door, as well. He entered cautiously,

  shut the door behind him, crouched, and waited. If gunmen were in here,

  they had ample opportunity to move against him. After thirty seconds,

  he decided to take the risk. First he twisted the dead bolt's knob,

  locking the door behind him. Then he crossed to the windows and pulled

  down blinds. Finally he crept toward the middle shelves, turned on his

  flashlight, made sure that its modest beam was aimed toward the floor,

  where it wouldn't cast a glow on the windows, and reached for the

  yearbooks that he and Jill had examined that afternoon.

  The gap on the shelf dismayed him. The yearbooks from 1929 to 1936 were

  gone. Hoping that they might still be on the desk where he and Jill had

  left them, he spun, but the flashlight revealed that the table was bare.

  Bennett must have taken them away. Jesus, what am I going to do?

  Pittman thought.

  Sweat continued to stream from him. He shut off his flashlight and

  slumped on the floor, propping his back against a shelf. Check the

  other yearbooks, he told himself. Look at 1937. Why? What's the

  point? The grand counselors had graduated by then. Well, what other

  choice do you have?

  Maybe there are other records.

  Earlier, when Pittman and Jill had searched the room, they had

  concentrated on finding the most obvious research toolThe yearbooks.

  Pittman hadn't paid much attention to binders and boxes. Many of them

  were labeled sEm REP, followed by sequential, overlapping numbers-51-52,

  52-53, 53-54, ct cetera-and the pressure of a time limit had prevented

  him from investigating the contents. Now, with no alternative, he

  roused himself, stood, turned on his flashlight, and approached other

  shelves in the room.

  The box he opened, chosen at random, contained smaller boxes, each of

  which held a roll of microfilm. It Occurred to Pittman that SEM REP

  possibly Meant semester report and that the numbers referred to the fall

  and spring sessions of each school year-like fall of 1949, for example,

  and the spring of 1950. The next school Year would begin in the fall of

  1950 and continue to the spring of,1951, thus The Overlapping

  numbers-49-50, 50-51. Over the Years, the accumulation Of documents had

  become difficult to store, not to mention a fire hazard, so the Pages

  had been transferred to microfilm, convenient for the school but a major

  frustration for Pittman. --'

  What am I supposed to do, steal the rolls for the years the grand

  counselors attended Grollier? I still wouldn't be able to read them.

  Unless you take them to a library that has a microfilm reader.

  But the rolls I steal might not have the information I need. 1 can't

  leave here until ...

  Wait a minute. There wouldn't be microfilm if there wasn't a ...

  Pittman recalled from his previous visit that a bulky object covered by

  a cloth had stood on a table in a corner to the right of the door. Its

  shape was distinctive. He shifted toward it, pulled off the cloth, and

  found, as he had hoped, a microfilm reader. When he turned it on, he

  didn't know which made him more nervous-the hum of the machine's fan or

  the glow on its screen. He went back to the boxes, checked labels, and

  sorted among rolls of microfilm, soon finding one for 31-32. He

  attached it to the spools on the machine, wound the microfilm past the

  machine's light and its magnifying lens, and studied what appeared on

  the screen. What he squinted at was a class list and final grades for

  students in Ancient History 1. None of the grand counselors' names was

  on the list. He spooled forward through individual reports about

  various students, reached Classical Literature 1, and again was

  frustrated to discover that none of the grand counselors had been in

  that course.

  At this rate, it'll take me hours to read the entire roll.

  There's got to be a more efficient way to ... The numeric Ancient

  History I? Classical Literature I? designation implied that there were

  later sections of those courses, Pittman thought-II, III, maybe IV. Heat

  rushed into his stomach as he understood. Grollier was a four-year prep

  school. The grand counselors had been juniors in 1931-1932. They would

  be in the class reports for juniors, three-quarters through the roll.

  Pittman swiftly turned the roll forward, ignoring classes marked 11,

  reaching III, and inunediately slowing. He found a course in British

  History in which all the grand counselors were registered and had

  received top grades. He found a courses-British Literature, European

  Hisnumber of other tory, Greek Philosophy, and Latin-in which the grand

  counselors had also been registered and received top grades. But in

  none of those classes did he find anyone named Duncan. He spooled

  onward to a course in Political Science, and immediately his attention

  was engaged: While the other courses had contained numerous students,

  this course contained only six-the five grand counselors, plus a student

  named Derrick Meecham. Pittman hesitated. When he and Jill had

  separated the yearbooks, hers had been for 1929-1932, his for 1933-1936.

  As he had learned, the grand counselors had graduated in 1933. But it

  now seemed to him that when he had concentrated on the M category,

  looking for Millgate's name, he hadn't come across any reference for a

  student named Meecham in the 1933 yearbook. He knew he could be wrong.

  All the same ... He spooled forward to the spring semester for that

  course, and now he frowned with puzzlement. The roster had dropped from

  six names to five. Derrick Meecham was no longer enrolled. Why? Had

  Meecham gotten sick? His grade from the previous semester had been an

  A, so he couldn't have found the course so difficult that he'd dropped

  it. Besides, Pittman had the suspicion that at Grollier, students

  didn't have the option of dropping courses. Rather, Grollier dropped

&nb
sp; students. Then why? Pittman thought again. He became more convinced

  that his memory hadn't failed him, that Derrick Meecham had, in fact,

  not been in the yearbook for the following year. Pittman rubbed the

  back of his neck. His gaze wandered to the bottom of the screen, where

  the course's instructor had signed the grade report, and suddenly he

  felt as if he had touched an exposed electrical wire, for the

  instructor's ornate signature seemed to come into focus. Pittman tried

  to control his breathing as he stared at the name.

  Duncan Kline. Jesus, Pittman thought. Duncan hadn't been a student.

  He'd been a teacher. That was the connection with Grollier. Duncan

  Kline had been Millgate's teacher. All of them. He had taught all the

  grand counselors.

  A noise made Pittman stiffen. Despite the whir of the fan on the

  microfilm machine, he heard footsteps on the stairs beyond the door.

  Angry voices rapidly approached. Startled, he shut off the machine.

  "... can't believe you didn't leave someone on guard?"

  "But the two of them left. I made sure."

  The voices became louder. "Were they followed?"

  "To the edge of campus."

  "Stupid ..."

  "It's a good thing we flew up here."

  "The outside door was still locked. That proves the records are safe.

  "It proves nothing."

  Lights came on in the hallwayoutside the door. Their illumination

  glowed through the opaque window. The shadows of men loomed beyond it.

  "I took the yearbooks they were looking at."

  "But what else might they have come back to look at?" Someone tried to

  turn the knob on the door. "It's locked.

  "Yes, I secured that door, as well. I told you no one's here."

  "Just get out your key and unlock the damned door."

  Pittman's chest cramped. He couldn't get enough air. In desperation,

  he swung toward the murky room, trying to figure out where he could

  hide, how he could stop the men from finding him.

  But he remembered how the room had looked during daylight. There'd been

  no other door. There was nothing to hide behind. If he tried to

  conceal himself beneath a table, he'd be found at once.

  The only option was ... The windows. As he heard a key scraping in the

  lock, a voice saying, "Come on, hurry," Pittman rushed to a window,

  raised its blind, freed its lock, and shoved the window upward.

  "Stop," one of the voices in the hallway said. "I heard something. "

  "Somebody's in there."

  Bennett's unmistakable nasally voice said, "What are you doing with

  those guns?"

  "Get out of the way."

  Pittman shoved his head out the window, staring down. He had hoped that

  there might be something beneath the window to break his fall, but at

  the bottom of the two-story drop, there was nothing except a flower

  garden. "When I throw the door open, you go first. Duck to the left.

  Pete'll go straight ahead. I'll take the right."

  Pittman studied the leafless ivy that clung to the side of the building.

  The vines felt dry and brittle. Nonetheless, he had to take the chance.

  He squirmed out the window, clung to the ivy, and began to climb down,

  hoping that there weren't other men outside in the darkness.

  "On three."

  Pittman climbed down faster. The ivy to which he clung made a crunching

  noise and began to separate from the bricks and mortar.

  Above him, he heard a crash, the door being thrust open. Simultaneously

  the ivy fully separated from the wall. As Pittman dropped, his stomach

  soaring, his hands scrabbled against the wall, clawing for a grip on

  other strands of ivy., The fingers on his bandaged left hand were

  awkward, but those on his right hand snagged onto vines. At once those

  strands snapped free from the wall, and he dropped farther, grabbing

  still other ivy, jolting onto the ground, falling backward, desperately

  bending his knees, rolling.

  "There!" a man yelled from the window above him.

  Pittman scrambled to his feet and raced toward the cover of the rear of

  the next building. Something kicked up grass next to him. He heard the

  muffled, fist-into-a-pillow report from a sound-suppressed gunshot.

  Adrenaline made his stomach seem on fire. Needing to discourage them

  from shooting again, he spun, raised his .45, and fired. In the silence

  of the night, the roar of the shot was deafening. His bullet struck the

  upper part of the window, shattering glass.

  "Jesus!"

  "Get down!"

  "Outside! He can't go far on foot! Stop him!"

  Pittman fired again, not expecting to hit anybody but wanting anxiously

  to make a commotion. The more confusion, the better. Already lights

  were going on in dormitory windows.

  He raced past bushes, rounded the back corner of the next building, and

  tried to orient himself in the darkness. How the hell do I get out of

  here? He left the cover of the building, running toward the murky open

  meadow. A bullet whizzed ist him from behind. He ran harder. Suddenly

  a shadow darted to his left, someone running parallel to him. He fired.

  In response, another bullet whizzed past, from his left. A car engine

  roared. Headlights gleamed, speeding toward the meadow ahead of him.

  With no other direction available, Pittman veered sharply to his right.

  He zigzagged and veered again as a third bullet parted air near his

  head. In the darkness, he'd become disoriented. Dismayed, he found

  that he was running back toward the school. The rear of the buildings

  was still in shadow, but the commotion was causing more lights to come

  on all the time. Feeling boxed in, he took the only course available,

  charged up to the back door of the nearest building, prayed that its

  lock hadn't been engaged, yanked at the door, and felt a surge of hope

  as it opened. He darted in, shut and locked the door, felt the impact

  of a bullet against it, and turned to sprint along a hallway.

  But he'd bought only a few moments of protection. When he showed

  himself outside the front of the building ...

  What am I going to do? This building was evidently a dormitory. He

  heard students on the upper floors, their voices distressed.

  Witnesses. Need more witnesses. Need more commotion.

  He swung. toward a fire-alarm switch behind a glass plate and hammered

  the butt of his .45 against the glass. The plate shattered with

  surprising ease. Trembling, he reached in past shards and pulled the

  switch.

  The alarm was shrill, reverberating off walls, causing picture frames to

  tremble. Despite its intensity, Pittman sensed the greater commotion on

  the floors above him, urgent footsteps, frightened voices, a lot of

  them. A welter of shadows in the stairway became students in pajamas

  scurrying to get outside.

  Pittman hid his weapon and waved his right arm in fierce encouragement,

  as if he was their benefactor, his only interest their safety.

  "Hurry up! The place is on fire!"

  The students surged past, and Pittman went with them, storming into the

  arc lights that blazed in the night. He saw gunmen to his right but

  knew that they didn't dare shoot with so many stude
nts in the way, and

  as the students dispersed in turmoil, Pittman darted toward the next

  building on the left, lunging inside.

  There, he again broke the glass that shielded the fire-alarm switch.

  Activating the alarm, wincing from the ferocity of the noise, he rushed

  back in the direction he had come, toward the front door.

  They'll expect me to go out the back. They'll try to cut me off, some

  of them coming through here while the others wait in the darkness behind

  the building.

  He pressed himself against the wall next to the front door, building. In

  the same instant, students came scurrying down the stairwell. Amid the

  confusion as the gunmen and the students collided and tried to pass one

  another, Pittman scrambled out the front door, students swirling around

  him. But instead of continuing the pattern he'd established to race'

  toward the next building on this side of the square, he took what he

  felt was his best chance and sprinted directly across the square,

  veering among students who milled sleepily, their bare feet obviously

  cold, frost coming out of their mouths in the glare from the arc lights.

  He heard the fire alarms and students swarming out of adjacent buildings

  and gunmen shouting, chasing him.

  Can't hide in here. They'll search until... they ... and at once it

  was banged open, gunmen charging into the

  Even allowing for his being out of condition, he didn't think he'd ever

  run so fast. His jogging shoes hit the ground perfectly, his legs

  stretched, his sweat suit clung to his movements as it had so many